"15 Seconds"

Just because it isn't snowing outside doesn't mean it can't be snowing on my blog.

Happy holidays, everyone.

**EDIT** Anonymous is finished now that chapter thirteen is completed.

An Apology

To my friends,

My comments on "Multimedia of the Mind" about Christmas and Christians were offensive and I am very sorry.

I want to apologize to all the people who read my mean-spirited comments. Although I was actually trying to be funny and sarcastic, I ended up disappointing people whose opinion of me I care about very much.

I want everyone to understand that those comments reflected a moment of poor judgment, and not my true opinions. Once again, I am very sorry.

Sincerely,
Sam

"Scenes From a Beach"

Happy holidays, people. Chapter Twelve of anonymous is out, and I've updated The Christmas Light Fiasco (Go to "Deranged Christmas Stories" on the sidebar).

Whoever said it was right. Three stories at once is a lot to right.

"Don't Mess Up"

New chapter of Malachi is out. Also, if you could direct your attention to the sidebar, the new menu option "links" provides links (imagine that) to my stuff, so just go there.

And I changed the footer, as well as the little paragraph of text in the sidebar.

**EDIT** I won't be on much, we don't have great internet connections.

"Shin"

Malachi: A Memoir.

Making Fiends

My newest story "Malachi: A Memoir" is from the point of Malachi from "Making Fiends", the flash cartoon above. Malachi is the dark gray boy with the three hairs.

Please watch some of the Making Fiends episodes so you will understand the story when it comes out.

Took me forever to embed the video and get it the right size, so LIKE IT!

"Dial Tone"

My blog was one year old on Wednesday.

And...

"The Christmas Light Fiasco" now contains a dig at pro-lifers in scene five and six.

Since most of you are probably not going to go there and read it...


5 -- Fairview -- Ext. Van -- 5

Low shot of the back of the van: the only thing seen is the van's tires and the bumper. A bumper-sticker reads "Life: It's a gift, not a choice" in a clearly pro-life demonstration. A mother is on it, holding a baby.

The driver's-side door opens, and MOBSTER 3 steps out, his feet the only part of him seen. The back door opens up and MOBSTER 1's feet steps out. MOBSTER 3's feet walk over to help him.

PAUL's feet come out, bound with duct tape and tied to the metal ball, he struggles. He is dragged to the left and off screen by MOBSTER 1 and MOBSTER 3.

6 -- Fairview -- Bridge -- 6
High above the bridge, a 90-degree look down at a bird's eye view of MOBSTER 1 and MOBSTER 3 dropping PAUL into the river. He splashes down into the river, MOBSTER 1 and MOBSTER 3 rush back into the van and drive off.


I like that, though it may be too contraversial.

"Float"

Chapter Eleven of Anonymous is out. I'm also still updating The Christmas Light Fiasco. It looks like I'll probably write those screenplays for more than just these weeks, I may write them until the first day of Spring.

Now that that's out of the way.

Why is that you people assume that the pine tree I drew is a Christmas Tree? I'm sorry, did something there indicate it was Christmas tree that I missed?

I have seen some of the worst political incorrectness this week. Though I know you people think there is a "War Against Christmas" (thought that seems like a cheap shot at Andrew, it isn't. Plenty of my friends think that), people won't stop wishing me a "Merry Christmas".

IT DRIVES ME NUTS!

So listen: a pine tree isn't necessarily a Christmas tree.

I swear, if you people celebrated Shabbat with candles, every candle you saw would be a Shabbat candle.

So happy holidays, everyone.

"Do Not Touch"

I'm still updating The Christmas Light Fiasco, as well as working on a chapter for "Anonymous".

"Clementine II"

The Christmas Light Fiasco has been started, though for the lazy ones I recommend waiting until it is finished and reading the whole thing. That generally makes it easier.

(and yes, that picture is centered. If you lean in you can see that there is a slight border, and that the subject of the photo is just off-centered)

"Clementine I"

More fun with focal black and white.

Couple of things:

• Why The Grinch Stole Christmas is done.


• I've been comment-spammed a few times, so I'm considering word verification.

I'm very proud of myself, finishing my screenplay. That's a single short screenplay in less than a week.

My next screenplay will be entitled "The Christmas Light Fiasco". Look for it tomorrow or the weekend.

"Half Empty"

In case you can't tell, the left side is in black and white.

I'm taking a break from Anonymous to write a new series of Christmas-themed stories called "Deranged Christmas Tales". They are in screenplay form. The first is called "Why The Grinch Stole Christmas". It is a work in progress.

"Peter"

This is a theme picture to that story I wrote a while ago with George and Alice (called "Blog [style]").

I enjoyed making the picture a lot, and if you see me soon and wonder why I have the word "Peter" written on my hand, this is the reason.

I'm still working on the menus, so bear with me (not to be confused with "bare with me", which would be an invitation for the person you are referring to undress at the same time as you).

"Locked"

"How's that?"

"Lousy. You're fired."

**EDIT** Chapter Ten is out.

"An Interesting Detachment"

Look at the sidebar and click on "blogs". This is a sample new menu that I am creating based off of this menu. Let me know what you think, and if I should make my whole sidebar like that.

"Nice Day"

Chapter Nine.

"Win"

Just a friendly reminder.

"Soles"

YES I KNOW! MORE THAN A WEEK!

I've had much busyness.

So good luck with chapter eight.

"Fade Away"

Chapter Seven

"Stop Here"

More playing with the color, this time to mess with the overall concept of the piece.

Chapter Six.

"Close"

Chapter Five is done.

Bah.

"Green"

Long-exposure of the camera being twirled on my tree swing. Based on this whole post on Ali's blog.

I also am trying to revitalize The Guest Blog, so this week you should all make a script for a radio commercial that advertises the guest blog. The best one gets a prize.

Also I'm done with Chapter Four. I don't really like it, but it's really the best I could do. I wanted to get it out quick, as I haven't posted a new installment in a while.

And here's an awesome site for stories. Go to "Free Stories", and I reccomend "Bad Traffic" and "Wile". Both are a little depressing, but very cool.

"Drain Stop"

"Ma'am, I'm not sure which oceans you're talking about. Could you be more Pacific?"

"Odd One Out"

This is my 251st post, people.

The reason the picture is called "odd one out" is because it looks like that last one is lonely to me.

I would've announced it at 250, but I forgot.

As a quick contest, you can email me your favorite post title and/or the one you think best represents my personality as well as the blog. I would much rather appreciate an email or google talk, because I wish the voting to remain secret. Any entry I get multiple times or one that I think is particularly good will be put up later for final voting. The rest is a suprise.

And "Chapter Three" is done. I'm terrible at writing romance, which is why I would like to thank Angie for helping me, as well as the song "Such Great Heights" by Iron and Wine, which helped me because it's a bit sentimental.

The principal joke is based mostly on the "smoking a guitar" statement, as well as our middle school principle pronouncing "viola" wrong.

"Merge"

Chapter Two is out on "Anonymous".

If you have problems with the links, keep refreshing the page. It should work.

"Perfection"

Is an apple still an apple if it isn't red?

And I'm finished the introduction and chapter one of "Anonymous", the unauthorized biography of the Vanquisher of Anonymous-ness.

"Illuminate"

"On/Off"

I've also done an introduction to the Vanquisher's Biography. I'm doing it similar to Tim's "The Adventures of Jack Sinclair", where I'm making an entire blog devoted to this and only this.

I'll post it when I finish chapter one. Then I'll update you when I add chapters.

"Edit"

This is a shot of ripply water, edited a bunch (cropped, increased shadows, lighting, etc.)

I'm working on an unauthorized biography of the Vanquisher. It'll be out soon.

"Art Form"

**NOTE: There is some swearing. You've been warned!**

There really an art to it.

One there, two over there, and three more coming in.

An artist uses a paintbrush to draw on his canvas. But he plans it out first.

A lot of my job is planning.

Another bang. This table isn't gonna last.

Shit. Time for moving.

I rolled and aimed again, taking down the two next to the washing machine. The other was blasting randomly, but he was just trying to add to the chaos. He was behind a sofa, and was too cowardly to actually look out to fire.

I dived behind the dining room table in time to hear the thumps from the three others upstairs. I pulled out one of my homemade grenades and tossed it behind the couch. The guy squealed.

For like two seconds.

The three others tumbled down the stairs and I got two of them before the third dived behind the sofa.

What is it with these people and their fucking sofa?

I didn't want to waste another grenade, so I just sprinted past the sofa and blew him to pieces from behind the coffee table.

I put a new clip in my glock and then stuck it in the holster. I took out the 12 guage. This next room was going to be messy.

Sometimes I liked to give advice to the people I was killing.

Run, you idiot!

No, not over there! I can kill you over th-

See? Now you're dead. Nice going.

How 'bout you? Are you any better. Ooh, a molotov cocktail. That's creative. Only it slipped out of your hand. And hit the ceiling. And you killed yourself. Pity.

I stepped out from the doorway and took down a couple of ill-equipped stragglers. One tried to throw a knife and the other actually tried to tackle me. What is this, a football game? Moron.

I finally found the briefcase behind the refridgerator. I also helped myself to a jar of pickles.

I slipped out the window and crawled down the fire-escape, sliding down the ladder and into the alleyway.

There were two men there, looking at my bloody trench-coat.

I thought "what are you looking at?" might be a little too obvious, but it did the trick. They went back to their cigarettes.

I caught the bus back to my apartment and opened the case.

Everything was in there.

I changed the combination on the case and went to put it behind my bed.

I went out, and crossed the street to the smoky bar I so often found my refuge at, pushing through the grimy door and greeting the bartender.

"And how was your evenin', Mr. Georges?"

"Fine, thank you."

*****

I made these:

"103.2"

The flu, oh the flu.

103.2.

So much virus inside, that my microscope slide, looks like a day at the zoo.

"Standby"

That's a long exposure of the "standby" light on my stereo, when I moved the camera in a twirly shape while taking the shot.

I think my favorite of your comments is this:

"In an Iraki prison, American troops were sodomizing the inmates with lightsticks.

Get some perspective, you ****."
Just a really hilarious comment. And could you guys avoid swearing for no reason? I really don't like the word "dick".

"Blink"

"60 Watt"

Check Triple Threat.

"Alkaline"

New battery day for my camera!


For an outtake of this post, check this picture.

"Fray"

"Machine Washable"

What is it?

I dunno. You can decide. I don't really care.

I went to Michele's party on Friday and we played a rousing game of "Manhunt", which is basically hide-and-go-seek outside when it's dark. We were all given lightsticks for safety, so most people hid them to prevent them from being seen.

One of the girls from our cast looked cold, so I gave her my sweatshirt. A couple of minutes later, her lightstick broke, and she spilled a little on the sweatshirt.

The game itself was fun. Everyone seemed to be convinced that there was someone stalking us from a bush because someone saw it glow. I, cynical as ever, was convinced everyone was an idiot, so I began walking over to the bush.

A couple of people started yelling, and someone ran over to me and hit me.

We dodged around the whole area in the course of an hour, diving behind dumsters, climbing trees, crouching behind cars.

The point was I enjoyed myself immensely that evening. It was a cloudy, pitch-black night, and twelve kids were running all over a neighborhood, attempting not to be seen.

On the ride home, I had my sweatshirt on my lap, and the little spot of lighstick chemicals was winking quietly up at me.

I swear, that little spot made me picture the whole evening perfectly, and made me remember everything about it. How much fun it was.

My sweatshirt got put through the washer, and now it isn't there. That innocent spot is simply gone, dissapeared. It seems I have nothing to remind me of the night.

Memories have a habit of doing this. They are there for the longest time, and then they seem to detiorate, as if your brain is washing them away. You try to hold on, but your brain seems bent on cleaning that memory out.

And it does.

And you forget.

But you should really try to remember, though.

That little spot of glowing light.

On your sweatshirt.

"Nostalgic"

This is a picture I took today because I was depressed. It's my tie and newspaper from Guys and Dolls.

I have yet to untie the tie.

I don't know why I thought it would make me feel better.

It didn't.

I was a wreck last night. Instead of getting into bed, I just layed down on the floor of my shower and went to sleep. I woke up in the middle of the night some time and dragged myself to my bed.

"Ripple"

Picture of the bath in my parent's room. The picture was taken in utter darkness, I used only the flash. Took me like 40 tries because I couldn't see what I was doing. I'm just glad I didn't drop my camera in.

If you didn't see "Split" look below, please.

Anyone have a better idea for a name for this one?

"Split"

This is a piece of slate in my dog's yard that broke. I think it's a pretty cool picture, but i wish you couldn't see that dirt towards the left part of the crack. Zooming in, the dirt looks cool and textured, but if you are simply looking at it like you are now, it would be better without it.

For the record, my posts during the week (mon-fri) are prone to being short like this. I take about 20-40 minutes finding a picture and taking it, and about 10 minutes posting it. So it is time-consuming.

I took that last picture during spring break last year. This one I took today.

"Two Points"

Astonishment

Today I was astonished.

Sometimes that's a good thing, sometimes it isn't.

Today it was not.

Normally I am not astonished. I assume the absolute worst thing is going to happen in every situation, and it almost always does.

But today I made a mistake. I assumed that human nature was basically good. I don't know where that came from.

Anyway, I was just looking at the cast sheet for "Reckless", and I saw I got Tom Jr. Jesse came over and looked to see that he got Dr. S. At this point, he asked me who I was. I answered "Tom Jr."

He turned to me to speak. I assumed it'd be something along the lines of "Congratulations". This was my mistake. I thought human nature was basically good.

"I thought I did a better Tom Jr. than you," he said.

My brain shut off. I was astonished by what he said. And I was also astonished that I was actually astonished. I hadn't felt surprised in such a long time.

When people are surprised, generally they go into a sort of defensive mode. It is why girls scream when the lights go off or when someone scares them.

I might've punched him right there if my brain worked that way. Luckily, it doesn't. It went searching for an insulting reply. It came up with one shortly, and I prepared to say my line:

"Maybe that's because you don't know you suck."

I never got it out.

Gabe, standing next to me, sensed that I was about to say something immediately. He jumped in quickly, saying "It's probably because we were smaller than you."

My brain turned back on. I remembered that Jesse was my friend. I smiled and agreed with Gabe.

The funny thing with this story is that Jesse is right. He did do a better Tom Jr. than me. I don't know why my brain does that.

Anyway the moral of the story is that you should always set your standards so very low that you assume that basically everyone is a lazy, evil slob.

Wait no. Cynical is my thing.

I guess the moral of the story is that I should either learn to control myself during astonishment or just maintain my level of cynicism.

That's better.

Oh yeah. The picture I took myself. It's called "portrait of a carnation". Basically I just opened the aperture alot, letting in tons of light.

Periwinkle

I was looking up a definition in my bio book, and passed by "Periwinkle", like the crayon color. I ignored it, but, remembering it, I looked it up online later, and here's what I found.

Periwinkle: any of various marine gastropods or sea snails, especially Littorina littorea, used for food in Europe.

Geez. We have a crayon color named after an edible marine gastropod.

Ah, well.

So anyhow my posts will more and more feature wierd arty or comical photos. This was one I this summer. I was taking my camera somewhere and managed, leaning rather dangerously out the car window in the process, to take this picture of a rainbow near Zuzu's.

I'm also writing a new story, but I'm posting it all at once later.

So that's that.

How to Catch a Bunny Rabbit with Nerve Gas

AGH!

I FAILED!

AT LIFE!

Okay, so guys and dolls was tonight, and here's the story.

During the first scene, I enter twice. Both times, I enter from the same place, exit to the same place, am with the same person, and deliver lines to Nathan.

I got the two times confused.

The first time, Adelaide (Maeve) and Nathan (Jeff) are on stage. I enter and say "Nathan, yesterday Mindy sold 12 hundred cheesecake and 15 hundred strudle.

The second time, Sky (Nick) and Nathan (Jeff, again) are on stage. I enter and say "Nathan, we took Adelaide to the drugstore and she said for you to be sure to pick her up and don't be late."

The first time I entered, Adelaide was standing right in front of me, and I said "Nathan, we took Adelaide to the drugstore and she said for you to be sure to pick her up and don't be late."

* smacks self in head *

Benny, an eleven-year-old, manages to cover roughly for me, saying "Wait... no. That was yesterday. Today was the cheesecake thing."

We pulled that off.

Barely.

After this, Benny and I escorted Maeve out as I punched myself in the forehead a few times.

The next time I entered, I knew I couldn't say "We took Adelaide to the drugstore" because it would be obvious I had mixed up my lines, so Benny reccomended "deli". I thought this was smart, but I also decided in my head to change "Adelaide" to "your wife".

We walk on, I deliver my slightly modified line and I walk out.

As I walk out, I realize that the whole point of the show is that Adelaide and Nathan are not yet married. The whole point is that they get married.

I just ruined the whole premise of the show.

I walk into the elevator with Benny and Marie, curl up on the floor, and wonder if I threw myself out the fourth-floor window if would die when I hit the cement.

As You Like It

It seems I have struck a nerve.

A nerve which is found in almost all of you that is simply an extension of your natural tendency to be nice to people: you want good people to have good things happen to them and bad people to go to jail.

I think most of your expectations were summed up by Angie's post:

"NOT COOL. the romantic people are supposed to live forever in happiness, not die and go to jail."

My question is this: Do you think the end was poorly written, or did you simply not like it because of the content?

My guess is that most of you were simply depressed, and therefore I believe an explanation is necessary.

When I finished part 4, I knew I basically had two options:

One: I could go with Kelly's method, involving a ridiculous cliché:

"I DON'T WANT ALICE TO DIE. THAT'S NOT HOW A GOOD LOVE STORY WORKS. she's supposed to be hit, but not dead right away. then you run to her side. "Alice, oh no alice. What have i done?! i love you, don't leave me!" then Alice says "These last few days with you were beyond my wildest dreams. Don't ever forget me. I-- I love you ....(falls down dead). Then you go" No, don't leave me. Alice. ALICE!!!!!!!

Then you angrily look at the killer and kill him in revenge for Alice. The police come and somehow you get off even."

This I actually considered, but decided, though my readers may enjoy it most, it was selling out. It made the story a useless piece of Hollywood crap that, despite the fact that people would like it, it would make me feel as though I hadn't evoked the proper response. In short, I would have been betraying the characters.

Two: I could do what I did, make a depressing ending bound to be unpopular. This was preferable to me mainly because I felt it was the thing that was bound to happen anyway. It would also evoke a lot of different responses, as it did.

The problem an author would face in killing off Alice and sending George to jail is that they would feel bad for the characters and the audience. I am not that way with my characters or my audience. I write my stories without emotion, and therefore care very little about the welfare of my characters, and I want to evoke a response from my audience, be it positive or negative.

I'm nowhere near as cool as Peter, and I hardly aspire to be, but I give him my apathy. Though I would say I am more apathetic than compassionate, I would say that tiny hint of compassion in me keeps me from being as cruel as Peter. Peter, on the other hand, is simply a cold-blooded murderer. He is not emotional about it as George is, but rather kills when he feels it is necessary.

This is how I am with my stories. I kill when I feel it is necessary. To bring out the emotional response that I wanted from my audience, I needed to dispose of Alice. She is the most likable character in this story mainly because she is the most human. If I had killed George you may have been mildly sad, but not nowhere near as angry as you were when Alice died.

The symbolism in the story is subtle, but it's there. It shows that in battle, a person who ignores their emotions (or better yet, has no emotions) will always triumph over those who react based on their emotions. However the person who acts based on reason will almost always be percieved as the "bad guy".

Another complaint I recieved was that I "left you hanging". I don't think there is any question as to what is going to happen next for those of you that see the story as Peter would, without emotion. Even those of you who are very emotional towards the story see what is going to happen. George is going to jail.

I think that there would be no question in your mind what would happen if the roles were switched and Peter was locked in that room. You would all know that the bad guy was going to jail. But George is the hero, so you are grasping at straws. You need him to be free, despite the fact that his fate was sealed. You assume the door is wooden and it could be kicked open, you assume that he could have killed the guards with the knife despite the fact that they have guns. You assume he could have out-gunned the guards and police and that after he escaped the police would not look for him.

George wasn't a good guy and he's going to jail. He killed John, and even if it was an accident he still was trying to kill the man talking. He went to try to kill Peter when he should have been solving Alice's case. You know so little about him, but you assume he a good person.

Alice was really the only innocent one. She killed one person to save George and then didn't tell him about the phone call, but otherwise she was pretty good. As far as you know.

But I think you should just understand how life works most of the time:

Bad things happen to good people.

((note: this is not an angry post. the comments I recieved were very good and I enjoyed reading them very much. please don't freak out at me, because I know one of you will write one of those long comments about how stupid this post was. I'm going to resume posting normally tomorrow.))

Blog Conclusion, Part 5

The knife hit the ground with a clang.

"Well, that just wraps up this case, eh, detective?"

The man in the mask laughed. I picked up the knife and threw it.

He sidestepped the blow easily as his armed goons lowered their weapons.

"Let's be a little more careful now, detective. We wouldn't want anything to happen to Alice now, would we?"

He paused as he glanced pointedly at the woman, who was sobbing gently behind me.

"Before the police get here, I believe it might be good to let you know just who I am. I do believe we've met, but we were never very..."

He paused in thought, as if thinking what the next word would be.

"...close."

The face mask dropped silently to the floor, as the man slid his hood back. Standing before me was a tall form I had seen so many times before.

"Peter?"

He laughed. "Of course. I believe you must be quite confused at this point, but you must have some idea. You put me out of business, George. You have jailed and killed so many of my customers I have no more income. But I knew there was one thing I could do. I ransacked the girl's apartment as a favor to a friend of mine."

He smiled down at the body tied to the pole in the ground.

"I knew you would get the case, George. You were the only detective in these parts, and the police are so unreliable in little cases like these. So I planted the cocaine, knowing you would come to talk to me. I let you think that you extracted the information that I didn't want to give you, but I was happy to give it to you all along."

"I sent some goons after you to make you come back to see me. I never intended them to be any threat to you, but in the unlikely event that they were, I was standing with a sniper rifle on the building across the street, looking in your window. You can't imagine how worried I was when Alice here got in the way of my shot. If you died, the plan would be ruined. The goons would be traced back to me by the police. You can't imagine how relieved I was when Alice did my job for me and killed the one threatening you."


"So you came to see me and I caught you. Alice was so gullible."

He looked at her. "Your sister is dead, I'm sorry to say. We had to kill her so if you called her no one would answer."

Alice broke into a fresh cycle of sobbing now, much louder then before. He walked over to me, taking the gun out of my pocket.

"I was counting on you bringing your revolver like you normally did, but you brought your shotgun. I spent a lot of time looking for this gun. Your apartments wreck. But I guess that's just how criminals live."

He took out a bullet and placed it in the magnum, spinning the chamber around so it would fire.

"So now you know the story. I had to give you the magnum because it was the only thing you could open the door with. Leaving the door unlocked would not give us enough time to prepare ourselves for what would need to happen next. We chased you into this room, and I knew you would kill John here, thinking it was whoever was talking. But as a great mastermind, I needed to think of one more thing. Why would you kill John? What reason would you have?"

He looked back at Alice.

"You were cheated on. Your lover, Alice over there, cheated on you with John. So you tied him up and killed him."

He raised the revolver and fired before I could do anything to stop him.

Alice never even had a chance to scream. She hit the floor, dead, a bullet hole in her chest.

"But you were also mad at Alice for cheating, so you killed her, too. How very cruel of you."

He looked around at the carnage he had created.

"The police will be here soon, detective. I must be going."

He tossed the gun to me and walked out of the room.

The lock made a clicking sound.

The End.

Blog Horror, Part 4

The knife bit through the last of the rope, and I crumbled to the floor, my feet still tied to the hook on the wall.

I cried out in pain as my legs bent in ways that i'm certain they aren't supposed to, but at least I was free. I had carefully sawed through the rope tying my hands together by holding the knife in my mouth. I then had tried to untie my feet, but I couldn't reach them. I instead was forced to untie my arms first, and that's when I had fallen.

Twisting round as best I could, I cut the rope that bound my feet to the wall. Standing up experimentally, I discovered that, although they were aching, they weren't severely damaged.

Alice smiled. "Great. Now untie me."

As I began working on the ropes on her hands, I asked her if she knew what was going on.

"No idea," she replied, watching the knife saw back and forth, "I got a call this morning that John-"

"The ex?"

"Yeah. It was from a guy that said my sister had been killed, and I was to meet him at the corner of 4th and Maple."

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked.

"I was afraid she might be involved. Someone tried to kill you last night, George. I don't think this is just my apartment being robbed. I think this could be something bigger."

I smiled grimly, "We're currently being held prisoner in what I don't doubt is a sort of criminal hideout. I'm starting to agree with you."

She continued. "I don't know what's going on with my sister, but when I got to the place, it was deserted. Three men burst out of the building behind me and injected me with a serum of some sort. I woke up here."

I finished cutting and she jumped down from the wall. Picking up my revolver, I remembered that today I had brought my shotgun.

I swore.

"What?" Alice asked, trying to open the door.

"I didn't bring pack my revolver today. They must have broken into my apartment to get it. It doesn't make sense. Why would they?"

"Beats me," Alice replied, "Did they leave you any ammunition?"

I looked in the gun. "A single bullet. That's odd. Well, I know how we're going to use it."

"How?" Alice asked, turning to look at me.

Pulling up my gun quickly, I sent the round blasting through the green door, next to the knob. It swung gently open.

"That's how." Pocketing the gun, I grabbed the knife and ran through the door. I was in a hallway with bleak cement walls similar to the one in my cell. When I came to the end, I heard shouting and running feet to my right. Without pausing, I continued sprinting to the left. This hallway was a dead-end, save one green door at the very end.

When I came to it, I yanked it open. Alice ran through as I slammed the door, locking it behind me.

We were, once again, in a pitch-black room.

"Hello, detective. How are you on such a fine evening as this?"

"Well I'm a bit ruffled, seeing as hundreds of goons are attempting to kill me."

"Always the comedian, our detective. And Alice, his unlikely romantic partner. When I thought of this scheme, I never envisioned you two as a couple, but it makes it that much more interesting."

He paused. The silence was so tense, I almost wished him to keep talking. I was following his voice, trying to seek him out in this dark.

"You must realize by now that you both have played into my hands this entire time. Even as we speak the police are coming, and they will arrest you both."

I was closer. I took out the knife, walking closer.

"And do you know what it will be for?"

I jumped, yelling. I felt my knife sink into a human body, and then warm blood on my hands.

"The murder of our friend Mr. Michaelson."

The lights came on.

A metal pole was imbedded in the concrete in front of me, behind it standing the masked man and two armed body guards. Tied to the pole was John himself, bound and gagged, looking terrified.

I looked down at my hand in horror, knowing exactly what I was going to see.

I had just killed John Michaelson.

Blog Drama, Part 3

I stepped into the bright sunlight, straightening my tie. Glancing quickly at my watch, I walked down the street.

Alice had gotten a call on her cell-phone at about four in the morning. She had answered cooly, but gotten more frantic as the call went on. She had hung up and I had asked her what that was.

"It was... nothing. Nothing."

She had got dressed and quickly left.

That couldn't be good.

At eight o' clock, I had left myself. My normal morning ritual this morning differed slightly when I loaded my shotgun and put in a bandalier over my shoulder.

Normally I took my revolver, but today was different.

I was meeting Alice's ex.

Meeting someone's ex is never a pleasent experience, especially when there was a good chance this person's ex would be trying to kill you.

But first I had a personal errand to take care of.

I had to talk to Peter.

Making a left, I kept walking as the buildings around became more decrepit. When I finally came upon the alleyway, it was empty.

I swore under my breath and turned around when the window to my left exploded.

Blackness cut into the edges of my vision as I landed in the middle of the street.

Someone came up to me, smiling a crooked smile, and hit me with something.

And everything went black.

I woke up in blackness.

I didn't know if I was awake, but I was pretty sure. I felt duct tape on my mouth and ropes tying me to a hard surface.

The lights came on.

As my eyes became accustomed to the light, I saw Alice, bound to a table, looking frightened.

We were in a bleak, grey room. There was a grimy green door to my right.

I looked at Alice and tried to calm her down.

It's difficult to do when you're tied down, but she seemed to get the message. She stopped straining.

The door opened and someone in a hood walked in wearing a face mask. He ripped off the duct tape covering our mouths and gave me a knife. Walking over to Alice, he ripped out my revolver. She cowered, but he simply placed it on the table next to her. Nodding his head at me, he left, locking the door behind him.

Alice looked at me.

"Now what?"

Blog Action, Part 2

I clicked the safety off my revolver and kicked in the door. I rolled in quickly, taking cover behind the wreckage of a sofa, and glanced quickly around the room. No one was there. Vaulting over the table, I checked the bedroom. It was a mess, but no one was there.

"You know, I could have just used the key."

Alice had decided to show me the apartment so that I could look for clues. I guess she wasn't used to the operation of a no-holds-barred, loose-cannon cop like myself. I would never open a door with a key. I would break it down and let the insurance cover the damage.

I poked around with my gun for a little bit while sharing a bit of witty, romantic banter with my client.

The clue finally presented itself when I opened the cupboard in the kitchen. There, sitting on a plate, was a small bag about a fourth of the way full of a white powder. I knew it instantly from my police work: crack cocaine.

"What do you have there," she asked, entering the room.

"I know where to go next," I answered quietly.

"Where's that?"

"My drug dealer."

I walked into the back alley I so frequently used to walk when I was a druggie and looked to an unusually large man leaning against the wall. When he glanced my way his hand immediately dove into the folds of his trench-coat.

My magnum was out first and I fired four of the six bullets in the gun in a well-placed spread. Two hit his gun, shooting it back into the corner of the alley, and two hit the wall to his right, sending him diving behind a garbage can for cover.

The silence that followed was deafening, the only thing breaking it was the occasional rustle of a rat in the corner.

"Peter," I said, moving around to point the gun at the man, "I think it's time we had a little talk."

He looked up at me with fear.

"What do you want to know?"

I threw the crack in his face, "Who did you sell this to?"

"I don't reveal my clients"

With a deafening bang, I shot a bullet into the wall above him.

"WHO DID YOU SELL IT TO?!"

He looked at me with anguish, and then spoke. "A guy by the name John Michaelson. He lives on the street, so I can't give you a location. Sorry."

"You have a picture?"

"I make it a point to take pictures of all of my clients, but-"

"Give it to me," I said, cocking the gun.

Pete looked angry, but took out a bag, leafed through it, and finally handed me a picture. I left without a word, studying the picture closely.

I had seen this guy before. I didn't remember where, but I remember I had.

I met Alice for dinner that night and showed her the picture. She looked at it in suprise, and then sat back in her chair, sighing.

"You know this guy?"

"Yeah. He's an ex."

"And let me guess. You didn't exactly part on good terms."

She smiled sadly. "Not really".

"Do you know where I can find him?"

"Yeah. He usually hangs out at the corner of second and chestnut, sitting on the bench panhandling."

"I'll have a talk with him."

After dinner, I walked into my apartment, hung up my coat, and poured myself a drink, sitting on the couch.

And then I heard a noise. I turned around to see where it was coming from, and I saw two very large men behind me, both armed.

"Anything I can do for you two gentlemen?"

With that witty remark I sprang up and leaped over the chair, using it as cover. Shots rang out all around me, but the chair soaked them all up. Turning, I shot two bullets from my revolver, sending one of the men scrambling for cover as the other fell down, hit in the chest.

In the silence that followed, I reloaded my gun and began stalking quietly around the apartment, looking for the other man.

I stepped over the body of his fallen comrade, looking behind the couch.

And then I felt the one thing that no one in the world ever wants to feel. That feeling that makes you know that there is no way in hell you are ever going to get out of this one. The one that every lno-holds-barred, loose-cannon cop like myself dreads.

It was the cold ring of metal pressing on the back of my neck that indicated there was a gun there.

"I think it's time you knew how things worked," the man said quietly, "You don't threaten drug dealers, you don't find pictures of their clients, and you don't kill my partner."

"But I believe I just did all of those things," I said.

The man ignored me, "And now, I'm afraid to say that you die. Goodbye, detective."

He cocked the gun, and I heard the deafening bang of it going off.

But I didn't feel anything.

The cold metal left my neck as the man crashed to the floor, completely dead.

I looked around and saw Alice smiling in satisfaction, standing in my fire escape, peering through the broken window.

She stepped in and set down her gun, wrapping her arms around my neck.

"Just thought I'd drop by".

Blog Noir, Part 1

She stepped into my office like she owned the place.

Later, I found out that it wasn't my office. It turned out she did own the place.

Ah, well. That's the way it goes.

I stepped out onto the rain-slicked street and took a drag from my cigarette, watching the moonlight dance on an oily puddle.

Watching moonlight dance on oily puddles while smoking a cigarrette was my specialty, but that's expected in the business. After all, I'm not exactly a garden care specialist. I'm a private eye.

I walked down the avenue, stopping at the bar on the corner. I pushed through the door into the depressing atmosphere, strolling to the bar. The bartender quickly got out a glass, wiped it with a grimy old rag, filled it with Scotch, and set it down in front of me.

I extinguished the cigarrette in the ashtray and drank deeply from the glass. I turned to face the rest of the little dive, looking around at the quiet, depressed patrons.

Trouble sat down on the barstool next to me. It was in the form of a brunette, as usual.

"I have a case for you," she said to the man next to her.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied, "I'm a chiropractor."

She seemed discouraged at first, and then turned to face me.

"I have a case for you," she said again.

"What can I do for you?" I asked, taking another drink of the Scotch.

"My apartment was ransacked. I don't know what happened, but I lost about two grand in money that I had hid in a sock, as well as about three hundred in damages," she said, "Can you help me?"

"No problem," I answered.

I smiled. This was going to be fun.

Boston Market

Yesterday I went to Boston Market. The person serving me had a heavy Eastern European accent.

I should've left right there. But, naturally, I didn't, or this would be an extremely boring entry.

I took a second to decide what to get, and then approached the counter.

I order my sides (mashed potatoes and corn. I'd never gotten corn before, but I figured it was healthy.)

"For here or to go?" she says, in her accent.

"For here."

Apparently, she didn't get the message. She puts my food on a plastic plate and puts a cover it, and puts it in a bag.

I decide not to say anything, but rather get a lemonade and slink to the back of the restaurant.

I take out my meal, but apparently the top wasn't on good.

I lose two pieces of my three piece dark chicken.

And a bunch of corn. Darn.

Well, I clean up as best as I can and switch tables. I eat my food. It wasn't terrible, but not great.

I start drinking my lemonade. And by that I mean I spill it all over the place.

I was just spazzing. Ah, well.

So yeah. Band camp today.

Does it really matter?

I don't see why it's relevant, but it was chocolate cake with vanilla icing, and the knife was just an ordinary sharp knife (fairly small, not serrated).

Okay?

Freaks.

Band Camp

Yeah, so I'm going to band camp today.

Yippee.

Annnnnnnnnyway, here are two random things.

One: Today I washed my glasses with lavender soap and now all I can smell is lavender.

Two: I cut a piece of cake with a knife and, not thinking, licked the knife. It's not as bad as you think, but it hurts.

Yep.

Lemon Juice

Is the same as lemonade.

Right?

Wrong.

Are you saying that lemonade doesn't exist?

And then I woke up.

Anywho, here is my schedule, in case you care:

Per 1; Days 1-6; MP 1-4: Spanish 2
Per 2; Days 1-6; MP 1-4: World Lit
Per 3; Days 1-6; MP 1,2: Television
Per 3; Days 1,3; MP 3,4: Phys Ed 9
Per 4; Days 1-6; MP 1-4: World Cltr
Per 5; Days 1-6; MP 1-4: AP Bio
Per 6; Days 1-6; MP 1-4: Alg 2 BC
Per 7; Days 2,3; MP 1-4: Choir T/B
Per 7; Days 6; MP 1-4: Chorale
Per 8; Days 1-3; MP 1-4: Wind/Choir/LitMag
Per 8; Days 4,6; MP 1,2: Phys Ed 9
Per 8; Days 4-6; MP 3,4: Health 1

And that's that.

She Blocked Me!

WTF? OMFG!

Hee hee. That's sweet.

Anyway.

I have nothing to blog about. Absolutely nothing.

How about you just go visit someone elses?

Oh, really?

WELL SAME TO YOU!

What? MY MOTHER IS A SAINT!

We're not friends anymore.

Blogger V.2

Blogger Version 2?

Sweet.

New features tour here. Still beta, but cool anyway.

Color war week at camp. It's really stupid. I hate it. Too much competition. And we have to do stupid cheers TWICE EACH DAY.

Bah.

Anyway trying the new Google SketchUp. Looks pretty cool, no?

Alright.

See ya.

Interesting...

I sincerely think you will all read this line.

My four-part story is officially over.

Just thought I would say.

Ah... don't really have anything else.

But maybe I will later. Read Triple Threat. And I'm playing with my layout.

Closing Remarks

As most of you know, it is very difficult to deliver a powerful exiting statement.

This is the story of what would have been one of the most powerful exiting statements to be made.

Unfortunately, it's also about how I ruined it.

As the story picked up, I was falling through a sea of black and white. It had felt like about 5 minutes, but it had actually been 10 years.

In those 10 years, Tim had become a famous nerd, Jeff and Jeff were doing comedy acts, and Angie and Maddie were on broadway.

And John Heywood, under the pseudonym "Don Juan", had become the world's youngest mafia enforcer. In two years he would become the world's youngest mafia don, but that was a different story.

At this point in time, he was on talking with another mafia family who were trying to negotiate the release of a hostage.

Sometimes people use the saying, "and then everything went black". Less common is "and then everything went white". But almost ever used is "and then everything went sky blue". Unfortunately, I now have to use this phrase.

As I was saying, I was falling through a sea of black and white.

And then everything went sky blue.

That's odd.

Duh.

Oh fine.

I twisted in the air to see below me, and I saw a building.

Crap. I'm going to hit that building.

Yep. Sucks for you.

Please just try to support me for once.

Fine. You're going to be fine.

No I'm not.

Look, do you want me to sing broadway again?

NO!

Gee, Officer Krupky, you've done it again.

I ignored it.

Meanwhile, Don Juan was getting up from the table. The other negotiaters looked expectantly. His response would decide the fate of the hostage. He was about to deliver the most powerful exiting statement of all time. And I was about to ruin it.

"Deliver this message to your don. Tell him Don Juan said 'F-'"

At this point, there was a deafening crash. I came slamming through the ceiling, smashing into the table, and coming to rest on the floor.

Juan finished his sentence: "'You.'"

He stormed out of the room, raging at the infernal child who ruined his poewrful exit. He made a note. "The redhead: Whack".

Back in the building, I decided the awkward silence had lasted long enough. I stood up, brushed myself off, and bid them good day.

Walking outside, I came upon an angry Don Juan, armed with a shotgun.

Ah. I'm going to die, aren't I?

Yep. Gee, Officer Krupky, Krup You!

I was scared now. John took aim at my chest, and made another powerful closing statement: "Sam, I'm sorry that I have to do this. But I'm afraid your time is u-"

My cell-phone rung.

Juan swore as I picked it up.

"Sam, it's God again."

"'sup?" I asked, cooly.

"I need you to do something."

"What's that?"

"Could you pass the mayonnaise?"

I didn't bother hanging the phone up. I just dropped it.

"Don Juan, could you do me a favor?"

He answered impatiently. "What?"

"Would you shoot me?"

He was more than happy to oblige.

Part 3

I have a headache.

Why yes, you do. Way to figure that out.

It's pretty bad.

Duh.

Why are you being so sarcastic?

What else would I be?

Good point.

Thank you.

Got anything to eat?

Nope.

I'm not hungry. I was just wondering.

You should open your eyes now.

Why's that?

Because this whole "self-narration" thing is stupid.

Fine.

I opened my eyes. And then closed them.

This was mainly because, on the ceiling, there was a drawing. A drawing of what appeared to be a pickle.

I like pickles.

No, you don't.

Oh that's right.

I opened my eyes again, looking up at the pickle. I stood up, looking around the room I was in what appeared to be a room.

That's good. You've established that you're in a room.

Shut up, would you? I'm trying to think.

No you shut up. I'm going to sing "The Circle of Life".

Please don't.

The Ciiiiiiiiiiiiiiircle of Life.

Ugh.

As my conscience went on singing this song, I decided I would look around. There was nothing in the room besides the pickle on the ceiling, and a door.

I decided I would open the door. As I reached for the handle, the door exploded.

The door just exploded.

And it moves us aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaall

Ugh. Stupid mind.

I walked through the door into a room that appeared to be full of lollipops.

I took a lollipop and ate it.

It tasted like...

Nothing at all.

Frances entered the room.

"Hello, Frances." I said.

"Shut up. You got me into this mess. Luckily I have these ruby slippers."

She punched me in the face, tapped her slippers together, and dissapeared.

Ah, well.

I stocked up on some lollipops and went through another door. This, too, exploded.

I ignored it, and kept walking.

Nothing was in this room, either. After exploding several doors, I came upon a room with nothing but a table.

On the center of the table was a switch.

I flicked it.

Suddenly, George Gershwin appeared. He was holding a stick.

"YOU STUPID KID!" he yelled, "I WAS IN HEAVEN UNTIL YOU POINTED OUT THAT I WAS JEWISH!"

He then proceeded to beat me to death.

After I died, I decided I would explore the rooms some more. Once I found a window, I jumped out.

There was no ground. Just, white. No one was around. The rooms rapidly dissapeared, and I was floating in whiteness.

And then, everything went black.

And then white again.

And then black. This was giving me a headache.

A headache?

Yes. I have a headache.

Please not this again.

The end.

Российская Забава

"Rise and Shine, Mr. Freeman. Rise and shine."

I heard a voice. Surely it couldn't be talking to me. I was not Mr. Freeman.

"Not that I wish to imply you have been sleeping on the job. No one is more deserving of a rest. And all the effort in the world would have gone to waste until... well, let's just say your hour has come again."

It was still talking. I realized at this point that I could hear it talking, and therefore I was not dead. The fall should have killed me (or rather, the sudden stop at the end). That cloud was quite a ways up.

"The right man in the wrong place can make all the difference in the world. So, wake up, Mr. Freeman. Wake up and smell the ashes."

My mind was spinning, and I was holding onto a single thought. I suppose, writing this now, it was probably of no importance.

What videogame was that from?

Silence reigned for 30 seconds, and then I opened my eyes.

I was on the ground.

On, what appeared to be a sidewalk. A man in a gray suit was walking away from me, and a trolley passed by me to the right.

And there, at the end of the street, in all its glory, was the Kremlin.

The huge spire's golden orb glistened in the evening light. And there, on the green dome, was something people were pointing at.

It was a broken jar of mayonnaise.

And then it all came back to me. God, George Gershwin, and, most of all, the mayonnaise.

I remember shoving Frances off the cloud, but she was no where to be seen.

Ah, well.

I walked down the sidewalk, peering into the shop windows, until I found one I liked.

The sign at the top was easy enough to understand: "Магазин Оружия".

It was the inside of the store that was curious. It was full of огнестрельное оружие. After browsing for some time, I decided on a nice Револьвер. Stepping up to the counter, I asked for some боеприпасы. The store owner obliged, handing me a red box.

The clerk probably would've asked me to pay if I hadn't opened the box right then and put the пули into the палата. I was lucky, because George Gershwin had appeared to have stolen my wallet.

Stepping back out to the street, I inspected my new purchase. People seemed to give we a wide berth when they saw what I was holding. I decided it'd be best if, at this point, I put it into my fanny pack.

It occured to me at this point that I had a fanny pack, but it didn't really matter.

At this point, a kid walked up to me and asked me for some money. I dug through my pockets until I found a quarter. Dropping the quarter into the cup, I asked him where I could find a bank.

I walked into the building and up to one of the tellers and I pulled out a sandwich.

The teller stared.

I ate it carefully, slowly, almost cautiously.

The teller picked put the phone and dialed the police.

I stepped outside as sirens began blaring in the distance. A police car pulled up to me and a policeman stepped out, yelling in Russian.

The babel fish in my ear translated it for me:

"Luckily I don't have to shoot you, unless you say the 25th letter of the English Alphabet."

I answered with confusion. "Why?"

The police officer pulled out his gun and aimed it at my chest. I managed to jump out of the way and pull out the Револьвер, aiming it at the officer. I squeezed off a shot before the world around me froze, the bullet hanging in the air.

A man appeared before me with a gray suit and dark hair cut into a crew cut.

He flicked the bullet out of the air and began talking to me.

"Time, Dr. Freeman? Is it really that time again? It seems as if you only just arrived. You've done a great deal in a small time span. You've done so well, in fact, that I've received some interesting offers for your services. Ordinarily, I wouldn't contemplate them... but these are extraordinary times."

The world around me began fading into nothingness, but this man stayed in focus.

"Rather than offer you the illusion of free choice, I will take the liberty of choosing for you. If and when your time comes round again. I do apologize for what must seem to you an arbitrary imposition, Dr. Freeman. I trust it will all make sense to you in the course of..."

"Well..."

"I'm really not at liberty to say. In the meantime, this is where I get off."

The man opened a door in what appeared to be a world of nothingness, and stepped out.

At this point, I heard a high-pitched screaming noise from above me.

I looked up.

There was Frances

I yelled.

"D'arvit!"

And then Frances hit me.

And everything turned black.

**EDIT** Ah. Wasn't sure which would ruin the effect less, but here's an announcement: Jeff, Tim, and I have started "Triple Threat", a new blog experiment. Check it out.

My Conversation with God

Today I met God.

Our conversation did not go as well as I expected.

Our meeting was up in the sky. We were both sitting cross-legged on a cloud. He served me tea, which I thought was quite polite of him. It was too sweet, but I decided it would be better not to complain.

"Hello, God." I said. I thought this was a reasonable greeting. I considered bowing, but I decided that might be too formal.

"Hello, Samuel," he answered, "I have waited a long time to meet you."

"Oh," I said, unsure of what to say, "Why is that?"

"Because you have been a terrible influence on your friends. They are devoted to my religion and you try to steer them wrong" he said.

"Ah," I answered, "but didn't you give us free will so that we may make our own choices? I believe that if these followers are truly devout, they will not be swayed by my thinking."

At this point there seemed to be a pause. He asked me if I would pass the mayonnaise. I saw none of this condiment on the table.

"God, there is no mayo on the table. In fact, we are drinking tea. Why would you need mayonnaise?"

"Your lack of faith disturbs me." he answered.

"Are you quoting Darth Vader?" I questioned.

"No," he answered, "this is your problem. You have a lack of faith. Instead of questioning the existence of mayonnaise, you should have simply gone to the refridgerator and gotten some more."

I answered as respectfully as I could. "Yes, but I am a guest. I find it rude for a guest to raid their host's refridgerator. Also, there is no refridgerator on this cloud."

"Are you saying that refridgerators don't exist?" He asked.

"Clearly, no," I said, "I am merely saying that there are none on this cloud."

"Turn around." he said slyly.

Turning around, I saw nothing except for what appeared to be a motorboat, as well as the remains of a slightly larger-than-average-sized rat.

I turned back to god and, once again, questioned the existence of a refridgerator on this cloud.

"Are you saying that refridgerators don't exist?" He asked, for a second time.

"No!" I said, "I am saying that there are no refridgerators on this cloud. Is there, perhaps, one I don't see?"

"There is one, but you must truly believe there is one."

I closed my eyes and willed, with all of my heart, for there to be a refridgerator on the cloud. Opening my eyes, I heard music. Specifically, George Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue".

I turned around to see Jeff playing a piano. Sitting rather serenely on top of the piano was a jar of mayonnaise. I picked it up and brought it over to god.

"What is this?" he asked.

"It is your jar of mayonnaise!" I answered.

"I do not want this! Dispose of it."

I brought it to the edge of the cloud, and, carefully aiming for the Kremlin, threw it off.

"God?"

"Yes, my child?"

"Is it a coincidence that both Jeff and I are Jewish and we are both here with you?"

"My god, you're right!" He realized, "I'll fix that at once."

The music paused for a minute, and then at the piano bench appeared George Gershwin, picking up where Jeff left off in the song.

"God, I'm sorry. George Gershwin was Jewish too." I said, quietly.

God quickly whipped out a laptop and typed a bit.

"Right again. And, what's this? He's in heaven! That's not right at all. Right then, new memo. Note to Saint Peter and all other staff at the admissions office: Do not allow anybody, even if this person is a fine composer, into heaven without first checking their religion."

As God finished typing, I realized that I wasn't going to heaven, no matter what. What a relief. No more pressure to be good.

"Ah, now. Where was I? Right. I'll clear this up right away."

The music paused again, and then, continuing in George Gershin's spot, was Frances.

"Frances?" I asked him, "She doesn't even play jazz!"

"Are you saying that jazz doesn't exist?" He asked.

"Of course not, I was saying that-"

He cut me off. "Are you saying that Frances doesn't exist?"

"No! I was saying that-"

"Please pass the mayonnaise."

At this point, I decided that my conversation with god was over. I grabbed Frances and shoved her off the cloud, and then jumped after her.

I've been told that, when falling, the actual fall is not the problem.

It's the sudden stop at the end.

Gone Silent

The phrase "gone silent" is a term used by submariners. It is refers to a time in which the submarine will maintain radio silence so as not to be discovered by a ship that may be above it.

Unfortunately, this is not the meaning I intend.

Since Thursday, I have been punished by my mother because I didn't do my chores.

So that is why I had "gone silent".

Anyway, the winner of TOtB is no one. None of your answers were even close to suitable.

Sorry.

Anyway, new contest:

You are at a party at your neighbor's house and talking to another party-goer who you have deemed a good person and whom you would like to have as a friend.

And you forgot their name.

Stupid.

You break off the conversation by telling the person that the house is on fire and you walk over to a friend and ask the person's name.

They don't know.

Asking around even more, you realize no one knows this person's name. Curious. You decide to get a Coke from the kitchen and walk in, when a smurf pops out from under the sink and pulls you into the cabinet, locking you in. You can't escape, and all the cleaning solvent fumes are going to your head. You can see the kitchen through a tiny crack in the cabinet.

In walks your potential friend whose name you don't know. You yell to them, but they don't hear, they are talking to someone else. You know that if you said their name they would look at you.

You're screwed. Sorry, man.

No wait. I mean, "How do you escape?".

Good luck.

Also to satisfy Carissa, here is a nice happy story about a unicorn.

Once there was a unicorn.

It died.

The end.

Dread

David glanced at his watch.

2:37 A.M.

It had been two minutes.

They should be here by now. He really didn't know what he would do when they got here.

They would burst into the room and head straight for the locked closet. Doubtless they would have the key by now. Lance would gladly hand it over and reveal the location of his trusted partner of 10 years.

David thought of Lance and cursed him under his breath.

He should have shot him right there when he had the chance.

Lance and him had pulled this kind of thing for their entire partnership. Tonight should have been easy.

Tonight.

They had everything perfect.

Mask. Car. Gun.

His thoughts wandered back to the rain-slicked street. The target was walking toward the car. David sat in the alley next to the car, in between two garbage cans. Lance was behind the blacked-out windows of the van, sitting shotgun.

David smiled. Shotgun.

The target had four more steps until he reached the alley.

First, Lance would open the window, and ask the target for directions, showing him the map.

Three more steps.

The target would lean over, and Lance would grab his collar, pointing the 12-guage at the man's chin, telling him to give him his wallet.

Two more steps.

David would sneak up from behind and inject the tranquilizer he carried into the target's arm.

Another step.

He would then proceed to shove the target into the back of the van as Lance moved over to the driver's seat and drive off.

Lance rolled down the window, and said something that David couldn't make out. The target leaned over and Lance grabbed him, jamming the shotgun into the man's chest.

As David recalled, it was at this point that things began to go wrong.

Six loud gunshots came from the roof above him. They shattered the car windshield and the back window, as well as drilling three holes into the car. The last shot was unfortunate. It slammed into Lance's arm. He screamed and let go of the target, who immedietely began to run. Lance took the 12-guage out and leaned out the window, resting it on the side-view mirror. He took quick aim at the running figure.

David paled. He knew what his boss would do if the target died.

"Stop!" he yelled. He dropped the hypodermic needle and pulled out his pistol, aiming it at Lance. Lance, of course, didn't listen. He squeezed the trigger off for what would have killed the target then and there.

As luck would have it, the gunman from above took two more shots at this point, having reloaded his gun. They both hit the shotgun, effectively rendering it useless.

David jumped out of the alley and rolled across the sidewalk, landing against the car in a seated position. He took brief aim with the pistol and let four shots fly at the man firing from above. He slumped over, dead.

Lance yelled at David to get in, and David didn't hesitate to. Lance gunned the car before David got a chance to shut his door, aiming for the target.

"Lance!" David yelled, pointing the pistol at him. He hoped the scare would be enough, but Lance kept accelerating towards the running figure.

David aimed the gun in the air and shot it through the car's ceiling, certain that this would stop Lance. It scared him enough for him to let go of the wheel, but the car directed itself at the target and hit him. The target flew a full ten feet before smashing into a parking meter.

David was shaking. He pointed the gun once more at Lance and said as calmly as he could, "You have four seconds to get out of this car".

Lance took two.

David jumped over to the driver's side and peeled off. Lance tried shooting out the tire, but the shotgun wasn't very accurate. It harmlessly glanced off the asphalt.

Sirens were going off in the distance. David didn't bother trying to blend in with the rest of the traffic; his windshield was gone. He swerved around, finally pulling into a spot several blocks from his apartment. He succeeded in pulling the licence plate from the car and then walked back to his apartment, scared. He would grab some things and get a cab to the airport.

He sprinted up his stairs and into the loft. He took a second to look out the window. There were two cars, both the same as him. Blacked-out windows. Four men in business suits got out. They went into the lobby.

David snapped back in reality and looked at his watch again. 2:39. It had been another two minutes. Why were they taking so long getting up the stairs.

And then he heard the door open. It had been a mistake to give Lance the key. David gritted his teeth and hoped they had killed him.

"David," said a deep voice, "You failed us tonight. This target was worth six million dollars, but you have to go and screw it up. Get out of there. Now."

David didn't move. He didn't even breathe. He was absolutely terrified.

The deep voice spoke again.

"Put a clip in the closet."

Anyway that's my stupid story. I'll post later today with something real.

Oh and today Frances' boyfriend threatened me:

"hahahahahahahahahahahahahahah duno y i'm laughin but u dont wanna meet me thats all i can say cuz i heard u treated sum1 like crap..."

Well that sucks.

Of Mice and Squirrels

Today my cat killed a squirrel.

And left it by my front door.

Ah, well.

Here's Jeff's contest:

"Using a barometer and anything you can find in your house, find the height of a random building in New York. Make sure to use the barometer and mention a moose."

Good luck with that.

Annoyance

I wrote this whole long story for you, and then it goes and deletes itself.

Bah.

Okay: three things.

1. Esto es Budweiser. Esto es cervesa.
   
2. Lying is wrong. Especially a lot of lying. And especially lying so much you can't remember who you lied to and what you told them.
   
3. Who is this Chris person? Is he Frances' boyfriend? Someone answer me!

It was a really great story, too.

Ah, well.

Complete Sentences

What's the difference between normal sentences and complete sentences?

WHAT HAS THIS WORLD COME TO?!

And I only posted THREE TIMES this week!

I'm sorry. I'll post more next week.

Anyway the winner of TOtB this week is none other than our very own Jeff.

"Yell insulting comments about the author of said book (the book's mother) and have a very large arguement about kosher laws while eating a cheeseburger. Continue insulting the book's author until the book yells something akin to "Why do you torment me so?" Respond with the ever infamous saying "What's up, Doc?", immitating to your best effort Bugs Bunny. Be sure to be eating a carrot. This should drive the book up a wall and eventually it will turn all the words back into the actual book you were reading. Then continue to read until you've finished the book. After your test, yell insulting comments at the book, which you have found has somehow made its way into your fireplace to be used as fuel."

Although it makes no sense whatsoever, it caught my attention.

That was really the only quality answer of all of them, I think, but next comes Jen:

"Take the book with you to school on the day of the exam. When the teacher asks to speak with you about how you flunked it, show him the book with the insults in it and claim that you read it thouroughly twice, yet you did not find any similarities between that and the test questions. When he moves you down to academic, sue barns and noble, become rich, and you won't have to worry about going to college! ;D"

I would have sued the school also, but whatever.

And last comes Ali:

"pitch the book after doing what i always do-blaming your little brother. then go on sparknotes.com and get the notes. read the actual book nonstop over the next two days, cuz we don't have a test til day 3."

Not great, but not terrible.

Honorable mention: Leah.

"Gah, it's Mr. Mxyzptlk (had to copy-paste that one), my sworn enemy! He's messing with my chances at a hight GPA! I find him, (I don't know, call out insults about his mother and hope my family doesn't think I'm crazy.) then challenge him to a wet tee-shirt contest. Loser has to do whatever the winner says. So, I buy a pair of fake PamAnds (copyright not really) and win the contest. I make him read his name in a mirror. He goes back to his own dimension, and my book is back to normal."

It's the right amount of "bizarre-ness" (patent pending), but it's a bit difficult to understand, too many jokes I don't get, and a tad bit innapropriate.

So Jeff, design a contest for us from Canada.

<(^_^< ) <( ^_^ )> ( >^_^)>

I got that in an email a while back. It said "Kirby dance cycle. Like the rinse cycle, but better".

Bizarre.

Ah well. So soon is a major event in my blog history.

It's my 211th post CELEBRATION!

You may be asking yourself why the number 211 is special. If you are, you're a moron! It's because it is a repdigit in base 14!

Duh!

Okay so basically I'm wondering what I should do. Comment ideas.

Also: if you search my name in Wikipedia, you get 911 relevant articles. If you search Tim's name, you get 3!

311 for Jeff S., including the 1973 production of "Tom Sawyer" and the word "Vibraphonist".

None for Jeff B.

Ha!

On a different note: I HATE THE BEACH!

Where I Draw the Line

Two things about where I draw the line.

My mass-genocide-obsessed friend says we should give out condoms with college lunches.

Actually, I kind of agree. Except it'd be a bit awkward.

And the Google Etch-a-Sketch! WTF?!?

What the frankfurter?

And I want to post Ali's away message. It's hilarious:

"talking about stuff. and not stuff like, stuff stuff, but the deep philosophy of stuff and what qualifies as stuff."

Okay so now on to Angie's book description.

Angie has brown eyes.

Author's will use two expressions to describe brown eyes: "mud-brown" and "vat of chocolate".

Somehow, Angie managed to pull off both.

If you looked at her eyes only, they were the chocolate. Very warm, very friendly.

If you looked at her face in general, they were the "mud-brown" color.

In fact, her face was full of earthy tones (oh my god. did i just say "earthy tones"? ah, screw it). Her hair was brown, her eyes were brown, her skin a darker than most others.

Angie was what one would call "friendly". She was nice, but she would also make friends easily. Sam admired her ability to walk up to any person and just tell them her name. Sam had never met anyone who didn't like Angie. She was just impossible to hate.

Angie had a gift for psychology. She knew with eery accuracy how people were feeling, and would comfort them effectively. She also managed to figure out who liked who in the group, but usually kept it to herself.

Angie had a musical talent that was a bit understated. Her singing was great, and she made it seem real. She would smile at the audience and act like happiness really was morning and evening.

Her spelling wasn't great. But it didn't really matter.

The end.

TOtB

Forgot yesterday. I'm officially moving it to Sunday 'cause I always forget.

There was no real winner this week; it was very very close. So I'm going to write the contest again.

Horray.

All of the following people are vying for first:

Jen:

"Take out your old halloween costume from last year, which just happens to be a ghost costume. Put it on, (the large ghost costume will fit perfectly over the vase) and on your way out grab a bottle of liquid soap. Run out of the house screaming and hope that the people bombing your house will either be afraid or not notice you. Once you are long gone, use the soap as a lubricant to slip the vase off."

Leah:

"Shatter the vase and get the hell out of there! You can collect the insurance money because it will simply be assumed the vase was destroyed in the bombing. Also, carrying said delicate vase would've slowed you down so you would've died too and not be able to care about the stupid vase anyhow. Heck, claim there was a smaller priceless Ming vase inside it while you're at it!

You should probably get to a bomb shelter or equally stable shelter."

Jon:

"Depending on how your life is going, why leave and not just get bombed?? What if that is a plus in your life? That or shatter the vase on a wall and worry about the cuts later as you run."

Here is my problem: none of you focused on both things in great detail. Jen was the closest, since she solved both problems to a certain degree, and used the word "lubricant" in her answer. Heh heh. So anyway, I'm awarding a kind of first to her this week. I'm not sure liquid soap would be good for that, I think Ali's answer of margarine is probably better.

Next is a tie between Leah and Jon. Leah's answer reflected a good way to get the vase off and to not lose from it by cheating the insurance company, and Jon questions my contest, being extremely cynical.

But neither person really answers the question of how to escape the bombing to the detail we're looking for. I mean, I'm not looking for much detail, but come on!

"You should probably get to a bomb shelter or equally stable shelter"? My house doesn't have a bomb shelter, I don't know about yours.

Okay so here's the problem this week:

You're reading your summer reading (oh shoot. I need to do that) book extremely late (8:00 the night before school starts), when suddenly all of the letters in the book rearrange themselves to form expletives and insults about your mother.

What's going on here?
How do you solve the problem?

Good luck.

I am a Duck

This is a story I wrote for this contest.

Please read it all.

I am a Duck
I am a duck.

I would, quite dearly, like to that follow that statement with the phrase “But I am no ordinary duck” and then perhaps “For I am Superduck!” or “I am a mutant duck!” or even as far as “I am one of those ducks that you throw tiny pieces of bread at quite diligently but yet I ignore it, acting as though I think that eating food thrown from inferior human hands is simply distasteful”.

Unfortunately, I cannot follow that statement with any of these particular sentences, for I am not a superhero, I was never exposed to any form of radiation that could cause me to become a mutant, and I gobble up every tiny bit of anything thrown at me, be it some delicious Italian bread baked fresh from your local bakery, or a large chunk of plastic, taken, perhaps, from the garbage of the local bakery at which you were too cheap to buy me a delicious Italian bread that was baked fresh. Incidentally, I have eaten more plastic than bread as of this writing. I hope to have more bread in the future. Plastic tends to have a rather tough consistency.

But I digress.

I am a duck.

That statement in itself can be read in a variety of ways. It can be read in an astonished sort of way, read at about an average speed, accenting the word “duck”. It could be read in a thoughtful sense, pausing after the word “I”, and then continuing quickly, as if a roller-coaster paused at the top of a hill, and then shot down it. It could be read in a reassuring way, with a kind voice, the emphasis on “am”.

It is not to be read in any of those ways.

But once again, I find myself out on a tangent. I shall pick up where I left off.

I am a duck.

But, just in case you were wondering, it is to be read in the most expressionless way possible, emphasizing no word and leaving even amounts of space between each word. It is to be read in what the rest of my flock would call “an ironic sense”.

My flock uses the term “ironic” too freely. They just don’t know what it means. I seem to be the only one. Perhaps they don’t understand because they’ve never had irony in their lives. After all, most people don’t expect ducks to be as socially advanced as to experience first-hand the phenomenon known as “irony”.

Irony is what gave me this personality.

Irony is what made me funny. It gave me the humor. People like the humor. I like the humor.

No, I don’t. I don’t like the humor.

God, I hate the humor.

I just wish I could tear it all off. The sarcasm, the cynicism, the humor. Just rip it’s cold clutches from my feathery body.

But I can’t.

I believe you humans are familiar with a story of “The Ugly Duckling”. There is an aftermath to this story that is not quite as pleasant as the story itself. The main character, who, at the end of the story, turns into a swan, happens to live in my pond. As a youthful duck at this time, I was dating a swan by the name of Penny. Penny was a very wonderful swan, nice, pretty, brilliant. It is very uncommon for a duck to be dating a swan, but not completely unheard of. I was quite glad to be dating such a marvelous swan.

Then along comes the Ugly Duckling, who is not ugly anymore. Immediately, Penny falls in love with his smooth ways.

I knew I was losing her. I knew that I must do something to save her. So, I buy her chocolates.

Apparently she was allergic to chocolates.

So, in an attempt to save our dying relationship, I put the nail in the coffin. And there’s the irony.

For the record, the nail and the coffin are both proverbial. Ducks find it difficult to grasp hammers. Webbed feet aren’t great for that.

I would do anything to get Penny back. For the record, I do not dislike this “Ugly Duckling”. I am simply jealous of him, and I wish to see him BURN in the FIERY INFERNOS OF HELL!

But once again, I find myself straying farther and farther from the intended subject. I remember, now, what it was.

I am a duck.